Page 69 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 39

“Maybe I should run on out into the field and invite Mr. Muscles in for
a free show. You know, Genetics on Parade. The war hero and his adoring
All-American family. If I have to fight fire with fire, I might as well get
serious. Next to these people, the Borgias were a nice Catholic family. Ry
coached me for four years so I could stomach them for more than five
minutes. Now I’m supposed to find them amusing. When,” he huffed,
“have I ever done what I’m supposed to?”
Ryan had adroitly moved Kick around so his broad back was to the
deck. He had bought this place in the country for quiet romantic week-
ends. Don’t ask how Sgt. and Mrs. Thomas a’Beckett O’Hara and family
moved in one foggy night and took up residence. Ryan was always a soft
touch. He was the oldest, and his father, as he lay dying had asked him,
exactly like the movies, to take care of his younger brother and sister.
“Obviously, we are not,” Kweenie said, “the family Von Trapp.” She
poked me in the ribs. “You’re such a silent observer, Magnus. A Quaalude
for your thoughts.”
“If Ry’s as good a talker as I know he is, that helicopter will be taking
off very soon,” I said.
“But will my sweet brother get what he wants?” Kweenie said. “I don’t
normally dig muscle types, but that face! Leave it to Ry. Whatever Ryan
wants, Ryan usually gets. I only hope he’s careful. I’m the voice of experi-
ence. All extremely gorgeous people hustle in their own way.” She pulled
me into her warm bosom. “Including moil”
I held her, looking through her hair, that was henna red that week-
end, at the longshot of the two men in the pasture. Kick put his arm
around Ryan’s shoulder and together they walked to the waiting cop-
ter. The pilot revved up the engine. They hugged the way straight men
hug: they embraced and their chests touched briefly, but their hips stayed
almost shyly apart. Kick stood for a moment on the step. He was the very
picture of the noble savage sprung from the dusty backwoods of Alabama,
the golden athlete raised on shit-kickin’ southern music, coming of age
listening to the Allman Brothers while he humped Miss Alabama in the
backseat of his red Mustang convertible.
As the copter rose into the bright sky, I watched Ryan stand solitary,
looking up, at the glorious, noisy, straight-up ascension that defied the
bounds of gravity. In my arms, Kweenie turned to watch the grand exit.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Play it as it lays. I think Ry wants to be
swept away. He doesn’t even know this is already too good to be true.
And neither of us, Magnus, will spoil it for him. Let him enjoy it. For

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